


Down

by Taselby



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taselby/pseuds/Taselby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is all right, but maybe just for tonight they can pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down

Spoilers: Umm, a few vague ones for UXM #410-434, reprinted as trade paperback collections Hope, Dominant Species, Holy War and The Draco. Though these are old enough now, and widely available enough, that calling it "spoilers" seems more than a little silly.  


Notes: There are a few direct and many more indirect references made to scenes from the issues mentioned above. While I don't think it absolutely necessary to have read the relevant issues, some of this will make a whole lot more sense if you have.

This takes place shortly after “The Draco,” with the presumption that Bobby has not yet completely transfomed to ice.

A big ol’ bottomless cup of piping hot thanks to Killa, elynross, and the inimitable Amy, who listened and cheerleaded and poked me in the ribs when I needed it. You’re the best.

* * *

 

The knock at the door was unexpected. It was late, but not outrageously so, barely midnight, and students had been known to come at stranger hours. Adolescent crises were no respecters of office hours or sleep, seeming to occur almost universally in the middle of the night. Bobby shoved a heap of laundry aside with one foot, resisting the urge to just shout “Go away!” He took a moment to compose himself, kicked the pile of clothes once more for good measure, and opened the door.

"What can I do-- Warren?" The bland pretense of advisorly concern was promptly abandoned. "What do you want?"

Warren arched an eyebrow at him, the quirk of his mouth falling somewhere short of amusement. "Good to see you too, Bobby. I'm fine, thanks, and yourself?"

Bobby folded his arms and slouched against the doorframe, not in the mood for whatever game Warren was playing. "What do you want?"

"You haven't come out of your room in a week, and no one's heard your stereo in a couple of days."

Bobby ran a hand through his hair, raking it back from his forehead. He wished Warren would get to the point. "It hasn't been a week, and so what? I'm not teaching this term, and my next advisor meeting --"

Warren shook his head and crooked half of a smile. "Jubilee thought you might have fallen asleep in the sun and melted."

Something went very still inside him, and he forced himself not to simply slam the door in Warren's face. "Not funny, Warren."

There was a moment of blank incomprehension before Warren flushed, and Bobby could see the heat rising in his face as Warren realized what he’d said, the shimmer of it so clear that Bobby could almost feel it from where he stood.

"Jesus, Bobby, I..." Warren shook his head again, visibly searching for words. That was rare enough to be entertaining; Warren was never at a loss for words. "I brought vodka." He smiled again -- this time it was self-conscious and forced -- and held up something in his grasp.

Bobby only then noticed the bottle. It looked expensive. "You're not a vodka drinker," he said at last, fumbling for excuses, stalling.

Feathers rustled, the sound too familiar, almost loud in the enveloping quiet. "Dammit, Bobby, I'm trying to apologize here. Open the door and let me in before we scare the undergrads."

It was hard not to smile at that. Warren was probably trying to be funny, handing Bobby's words back to him. It was really hard to stay mad at Warren when he kept standing there smiling that stupid, cheesy grin, holding out the vodka, and Bobby felt himself slowly yielding to the press of inevitability. He knew that he’d let Warren in eventually, but some cruel spark in him refused to be gracious about it, enjoying the spectacle of Warren’s discomfiture.

"You going to levitate that bottle of vodka for me?" Bobby asked, falling short of the joke he was reaching for. There was no humor there, and he felt like an ass for bringing up Warren’s grief, even obliquely.

Warren’s looked down quickly and refolded his wings. Feathers stood out in irritation.

Dammit. And damn Betsy too, for dying heroically in the line of whatever, quite likely saving cripples and orphans from the stereotypical Fate Worse Than. Bobby didn’t know the details, and didn’t really care to. No amount of heroic window-dressing changed the fact that she was dead.

Bobby would have done anything to discredit Warren’s ridiculous grief-induced delusion that Betsy’s ghost, spirit, essence, or whatever, had actually come back from the great beyond to grant forgiveness and assorted blessings. She was dead. Wasn’t the expression supposed to be "dead and gone"? Why couldn’t she just hurry up and go like a good spirit? Into the light, and all that.

Warren looked back up and forced another smile. The recessed lighting in the hall shone softly on his hair and the arches of his wings, leaving his face in shadows. "Just like the cheeseburger, yeah, but I'm going to levitate it at your head if you don't let me in."

The threat, for all its insincerity, worked better than the coaxing. A nod of his head, more to fate than to Warren, and Bobby let go of the door and took the offered bottle. "Vodka? Why not," he agreed, yielding at last.

He stepped aside and gestured for Warren to come in. The room was cluttered even more so than usual, piled with DVD cases, books, and still more laundry he hadn’t been bothered to clean up. Warren, painfully polite in these things as always, made no comment as Bobby moved books to set the bottle on the end table. Bobby wished Warren would say something about the clutter, if only to give him one more excuse to be an asshole.

There were a few things on the couch -- a pair of jeans, couple of t-shirts, a stack of graded papers from last term he'd yet to return -- not much really, but he gathered them quickly in a show of attempting to be a good host. The papers went on a shelf, the clothes dropped casually beside the bed. He glanced over his shoulder at Warren, still standing inside the door. "Come in if you're coming in. Or was this just a delivery so that I could drown my sorrows in private?"

Warren came in at last, somehow avoiding the obstacles on the floor without seeming to really see them. "Quit trying so hard to be a jerk and get some glasses."

"Yes, sahib," he muttered under his breath, though it wasn't really Warren he was mad at.

He found two plastic tumblers and rinsed them in the bathroom sink. When he came back, Warren was seated comfortably on the couch, wings folded over the low back. He'd pulled the sleeves of his sweater down.

Bobby passed one of the cups to Warren, then reached back for the bottle. "Cold?"

"Not really," Warren said a bit too smoothly, breath frosting faintly.

Something hard twisted in Bobby's gut. "Jesus, Warren. You should have said something." He bounced up and adjusted the thermostat with a blind crank of the dial. Settling back on the couch, he raked the hair back from his eyes again, restless.

"It's all right. It's--"

Bobby waved a hand and cut him off. "I wasn't... I meant the vodka. Do you like it cold?"

"Oh, yeah," Warren said. "This should have enough alcohol in it to keep it from freezing." There was a faint lift to his mouth that might have been a smile, but Bobby wasn’t sure. It seemed more bitter than jolly, but maybe that was just him.

The heater sighed in the background, and Bobby's chest felt even heavier than usual. Directionless anger surged as he wondered again what game Warren was playing. He resisted the urge to burst the bottle with ice. "You're wrong, you know," he said, the weight in his chest pressing on him, making it hard to catch his breath. He picked up the bottle and studied the frosted glass, silvery etched designs chasing themselves around the bottom. The weight of it felt good in his hand. He let out a slow breath, concentrating, feeling for the water in between the molecules of alcohol. There was a crackling sound, and suddenly the bottle smoked with cold.

He looked critically at the rime of frost on the glass that obscured the design. Light, almost lacy, just the flash frozen water vapor in the air, instantly sublimated on contact with the glass. He’d coated his fingers as well, and wiped them on his shirt. "Anything will freeze if you just make it cold enough."

"Oh," Warren said, shifting in his seat. “I didn’t know that." He held out his cup. Obediently, Bobby poured.

They drank in silence for a while. Bobby thought about putting on some music, but that felt a bit too much like acknowledging that they were going to make a night of this. In the quiet, they could be just two old friends sharing a drink. They could be anyone.

Warren adjusted his wings, feathers rustling. "You comfortable?" Bobby asked, again conscious of being a polite host, going through the motions if nothing else. His mother would be proud. "I can trade you seats."

"No, I'm all right." There was another long pause. Bobby sipped at his vodka, not feeling the cold, just the chemical burn of alcohol in his stomach. He wondered when it was exactly that he and Warren had grown so distant, when it was that friendship had become such an effort.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t done this before. Late nights with Warren and Hank, and the grand excesses of beer, pizzas, and board games were among his more cherished memories. Maybe that’s what it was--that nights like this had become memories, events in his past to be trotted out and reminisced over on special occasions. Not things that they actually did anymore.

Jesus, what was happening to him, that he could still be so young, and feel so old.

He squirmed against the silence, looking up at Warren, who appeared unaware of his turmoil. "So is there a master plan, or are we just going to get good and drunk?"

Warren looked up over the rim of his cup, his eyes shaded, almost lost in thoughts of his own. "I should have noticed something was happening to you," he said at last.

New tension thrummed though Bobby's spine as something in him seemed to dilate with a rush of inappropriate adrenaline. _Fight or flight?_ asked a cool voice in his head. Squelching the voice, he reached deliberately toward the bottle, ignoring the shaking of his hand. "Right, drunk it is."

"Bobby--" Warren shifted minimally, and for a bare second Bobby thought Warren would stand, towering over him with 6-feet-plus of Sincere Repentance, asking for an absolution that Bobby couldn’t give.

Snatching his hand back, Bobby sprang up off the small sofa and paced away, needing distance, feeling itchy and shut in on every side. "No."

Warren didn't move, damn him. The very picture of a sorrowful angel, beautiful and brooding on the couch, holding that pink plastic cup in both hands like it was Waterford crystal. "I should have known something was wrong. You were there for me after Betsy, and I--"

"I said _no_," Bobby ground out, rougher than he’d meant to. There was a feeling like glaciers sliding, weight pressing him relentlessly to the sea. He paced, caged, and kicked at a pair of boots lying on the floor. "I thought you said you were here to apologize?"

"Damn it, if you'd let me!" The heat rose again in Warren's face, his body tensed as if he were poised for flight.

"When does it get to the part about making me feel better?" He ran out of room to pace. The room had never felt so small before. "I'm not interested in your need for closure."

Warren looked away, throat working soundlessly before a rough whisper slid out into the still air. "I thought you were dead."

"Yeah, so did I." The heater groaned as the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Bobby felt the soothing glide of ice as it crawled up his right arm, a reflexive sheath. It took a moment to register before he shook himself, fighting for control like he hadn't had to in years. He wanted to hit things, wanted to freeze everything in his range until he hurt from the effort, until there was no more ice he could make. The need was like the taste of cold metal in the back of his mouth. He swallowed hard, and looked at Warren.

And Warren… Warren still didn't move. Clean white light from the one lamp frosted his wings, picking out the small details of the little feathers along the bones. His breath steamed in the cold air, knuckles white as he gripped that ridiculous plastic cup.

"I didn't come to fight with you tonight."

Bobby clenched his fist, feeling the ice crack and re-form, and deliberately took a step back. "Well, that's a relief, because if you did, I have to say you're not doing a very good job of it. Honestly, I've gotten better scraps out of Jubilee. Wait a sec-- maybe you got the wrong room? Wolverine's usually good for a round or twenty, but his room is down the hall--"

"Will you be serious?" Warren ran a hand over his face. "Please?"

Bobby took a minute to breathe, swallowing the bitter words that came so easily to mind. They went down like bile. "No, I don't want to be serious. I'm fucking _tired_ of serious, Wings. Stuff is happening to me, and I'm doing my best to deal with it, but--"

"But you're scared?"

He couldn't look Warren in the eyes. "Yeah, I'm scared. And the last thing I want is to have to be serious."

"Fair enough," Warren took a drink from his cup. "It's all right to be afraid, Bobby." He looked down into his drink for a long minute, thinking, then took another swallow. “It scares me, too, and I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Bobby nodded, sucked a deep breath between his teeth and drained his cup, feeling the artificial warmth of the liquor spreading through him and the genuine warmth that shimmered off of Warren like the light, spreading through the room. “What _did_ you come for?”

Warren leaned over, elbows on knees, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I wanted to see you. I was -- after you --“ He studied his cup for a long moment, as though the answer he needed was printed somewhere on the gaudy pink plastic, then frowned. “It’s selfish. I didn’t want to be alone.” He looked up at Bobby and sighed. “Look, if you want me to go...”

Bobby shook his head, Warren’s need easier to deal with than his own. "It's all right," he said, relaxing and letting the ice crack off of his skin. Again there was the distant feeling of minimally and inevitably losing ground, sliding, and Warren’s eyes were the deep blue of a cold water sea. Bobby sat on the couch beside him. "Come on, let's drink." He held out his cup for more, and Warren poured, the frost on the bottle melting under his hand.

Another long, only slightly less uncomfortable silence, and Bobby was wishing he'd picked a CD to play, after all.

"Bobby, would you mind... Can I please have some ice?"

Bobby looked at him hard, hesitating before reaching out. Once, a few years ago, he'd made the ice for a pitcher of tea at a family barbecue. His father's disgust when he found out what he was drinking, as if it were dirty, still made his gut twist in shame. The pitcher had quietly vanished from the table, and been replaced by cans of cola. He hadn't even frozen Scott's pancakes since.

He didn't take Warren's cup, just leaned forward and twisted his fingers over it, dropping odd-shaped lumps of ice one at a time. "Thank you," Warren said automatically.

"You're welcome." Bobby's hands were unsteady as he poured more vodka, trying not to stare as Warren drank without hesitation. Wondering at the erotic undercurrent that seemed to come from nowhere, like the ice, conjured from the air. He set the bottle aside and looked down into his own cup, considered for a moment, and filled it with ice as well. The uneven lumps slipped quietly into the liquor. "You know,” he said, “if you're bent on doing the Russian thing, we should be drinking it neat."

Warren shrugged, "If I was doing the Russian thing, I'd have brought Stoli."

"Yeah, ok. You have a point there." Bobby paused, swirling the ice, listening to the muted clatter of the chunks against the plastic cup. "You could have brought, what's her name? The Russian chick with the Avengers."

"Black Widow? I think she's dating Iron Man. Besides, I met her once or twice. Beautiful, but scary."

"That might be interesting." The small talk sounded dry and forced, even to his own ears.

Warren shook his head. "Not the good kind of scary. Just the scary kind."

"Oh." He was starting to feel mellow, soft around the edges. Keenly aware of how closely Warren was watching him. At the moment, though, he didn't mind the scrutiny. It warmed him inside in a way he didn't often feel.

Bobby shifted, pulling a leg underneath him and turning toward Warren. His face felt very naked and slightly numb. “This is a good plan you had.”

Warren raised his cup in salute. “An excellent plan, yes.”

“We should do this more.”

“Getting drunk?”

Bobby nodded. “Yes. Well, I was really thinking more about the hanging out and making uncomfortable small talk part than the drunk part. But the drunk part is nice, too.”

Warren frowned into his cup. He licked his lips. “I was an asshole.”

“Yeah, you were. But so was I.”

“Intermittently, yes, but you had reasons,” Warren said. “Since we came back from Isla des Demonas you’ve just been a hermit.”

“I had some things to think about.” Bobby looked down into his cup, swirling the ice again. "I could see you, after--after the arrow exploded." The ice rattled in his cup, muted by the plastic, and he felt himself falling inside, as a glacier calving into the sea--ponderous and inevitable, the final culmination of an unimaginable journey.

Warren's face clouded. He paused, as though gathering his thoughts, or his courage, but he didn't look away, didn't pretend to misunderstand. "You -- you were in pieces," he said, voice thick. He took another drink, seeming to struggle for words. "There was so much ice, and I thought-- all I could think--"

Bobby leaned close and gripped Warren's arm, feeling the warmth of him under the soft wool of his sweater, the steadiness that made talking about this -- not _easy_ \-- but possible. "I saw you," he repeated uselessly, swallowing hard against his tightening throat. The words felt thick and useless, but he said them anyway. "I knew I was dead; I was -- and you were there--" he squeezed his eyes shut against the memory, the keen horror of having no body, of seeing himself blasted to chunks and waiting for death. Shivering off the memory, he dragged the back of his hand across his eyes. Who was comforting whom here? Maybe it didn't matter. "It's all right."

"It's not all right." Warren laid a hand over his forearm, almost a warrior's grip, pulling them closer together. It was almost an echo of younger days, when being heroes had seemed like a grand adventure. When they had counted victories, instead of headstones.

A ghost of fragrance caught him, subtle cologne and warm feathers, and felt for the first time tonight how underdressed he was in soccer shorts and a thin t-shirt, barefoot and vulnerable. "No. But just for now," he whispered, squeezing Warren's arm, "can we pretend that it is?"

Nodding acknowledgment, Warren sipped at his drink, lipping at the slowly melting ice. There was something in his expression, in the way heat poured off him, that made Bobby swallow hard again, mouth dry for entirely different reasons. "I'm gonna…" Going to what? Cry. Kiss Warren. Fall apart more than he already had. "I'm gonna find a CD."

He lurched up, suddenly, inexplicably nervous, and stumbled across the room, fumbling his way through a stack of music. Sensitized to the swirling heat and moisture heavy in the air, he felt Warren get up to follow him.

Turning, he watched Warren swirl his cup, fish out a sliver of ice with long fingers and slide it between his lips.

The CDs fell from his hands with a jarring clatter. He followed them down, kneeling as if he meant to do just that before the tremor in his legs took the option of pretense away from him, and scraped ineffectually at the heap of plastic cases. Warren knelt with him, and his large hands closed warmly over Bobby's, stilling his manic attempt to pick up the discs.

Bobby closed his eyes at the touch, tightening his hands under Warren's. "Warren, what are we doing?"

"Bobby, I want--" Warren breathed, so close that his wings shaded them, fanned around them almost protectively.

Bobby turned his hand in Warren's, carefully lacing their fingers together. "Shh, it's ok. Don't tell me."

He leaned closer, feeling Warren's breath on his cheek, the brush of hair where their heads didn't _quite_ touch. It was much too late to pretend that this was anything but what it was. He pushed down the panic that threatened to tear him open, and pressed his mouth to Warren's.

Warren cupped Bobby's face in his big hands, warm hands, gentling the kiss into something aching and tender. His mouth moved slowly against Bobby's, soft and moist, licking at him until he opened, sucking at his lips.

It was surprisingly not-odd. He and Warren had known each other forever, and before this Bobby would have said -- had said, in fact -- that Warren was like a brother. Though maybe he was wrong about that and it wasn't like brothers at all -- which was certainly seeming the case as Warren pressed the kiss deeper, hands spread across his back and waist, stroking Bobby’s skin through the thin t-shirt. More likely Warren had another idea about this entirely because it was beginning to feel like one of those surveys he’d filled out in school where none of the choices were right and he just ended up checking "other" for everything.

But Bobby didn't really have a brother, so who knew?

Bobby's chest felt heavy, and he struggled for breath. Warren just kept kissing him. Kissed his neck and the side of his face when he had to turn and gasp for air, kissed his cheeks and his eyes. And when Bobby at last caught his breath, Warren kissed his mouth again like he was planning on staying there for a while, guiding them up to the bed.

Bobby was grateful that Warren didn't question him, didn't ask if he was all right, if he was sure, if he wanted this. He reached for the hem of Warren’s sweater slowly, not quite believing this was real, and not really caring. Maybe it didn't matter, like so many other things tonight.

Didn’t matter that this was maybe his last chance before the ice took him, and no one would want – or be able – to be with him again.

And maybe he should stop thinking so much and just accept that Warren was here, with him, flushed and intense, peeling off that sweater over his head, his wings. Heat rolled off of him in slow waves, bright and sweet, and Bobby wanted it, wanted Warren so desperately that it hurt inside.

Bare-chested and painfully beautiful, Warren knelt over him, limned with light. Bobby hesitated. He wanted this -- whatever it was that was happening here. And now…

Now Warren fell forward onto one hand, making the mattress creak and dip on that side, taking Bobby's hand in his free one and pressing it to his chest. "Bobby..."

Bobby’s heart pounded so hard he felt as if his whole body was shaking in time. Warren’s skin was soft and hot, his chest rising and falling steadily as he waited, impossibly patient, for Bobby to overcome this paralyzing clench of fear and need.

His hands were shaking as he traced the contours of Warren’s chest with careful fingers, following the curve of his muscles, brushing at first lightly over the peaks of his nipples, then more firmly as Warren closed his eyes and leaned into the contact. Bobby felt like he couldn’t touch enough, like he’d never get his fill, growing more confident, bolder as Warren sighed approval. Warren’s shoulders, neck, face... his wings.

He'd touched Warren's wings before, but never really explored them. He ghosted his hands over the white feathers, caressing the joints, seeking the place where they joined Warren's back. The skin there was delicate and humid, and touching it made Warren shiver and seek his mouth again.

"Do that again," Warren whispered, groaning into Bobby's neck with a voice that cut straight down through him to his cock.

"Oh, God," Bobby pulled him further up the bed, too excited now to even kiss properly, just licking and biting and utterly desperate to get Warren against him, to touch him full length and be wrapped in all that warmth and the sweet clean scent of him.

There was a muted thump of shoes hitting the floor and Warren climbed up over him, petting his thighs with soft little strokes that teased at him until his legs fell open. Warren pressed a firm hand over him through the thin nylon of his shorts, and Bobby bucked up into it, helpless, so hard it hurt, excitement and terror mingling until he couldn't tell them apart.

And that was all right, too, because Warren was here, strong and steady, warming him with his hands, whispering things that Bobby couldn't quite catch. Warren pressed his face into the crook of Bobby's shoulder, mouthing his neck, stroking and squeezing his legs, his hips, his --oh, God-- his cock through the flimsy nylon and it was perfect and just right and not enough all at once.

He was making noise, head pressed back into the mattress, mouth hanging open. Warren was touching him -- somehow he just couldn't get past that idea, that Warren was here, _touching_ him -- covering him with his mouth and bare skin and wings fanned out and trembling. Bobby knew he should be doing something back, but his hands wouldn't work anymore, and it was all he could do to just lie here and feel this good. Feel so good under Warren's hands, sliding up over the band of his shorts and under his shirt --

"No," Bobby panted, holding Warren's wrist away from his shirt, ready to cry from the effort and the shame of it, from the look of surprise giving way to hurt in Warren's eyes.

"What--" Warren swallowed, breathing hard. "Did I -- Are you ok?"

"I don't want you to -- to see it." He couldn't say the words, couldn't call it what it was. Where he was turning to ice, where he wasn't human anymore. Closing his eyes, he willed Warren to understand. "Please. Just… not there, ok?"

Warren nodded slowly, lifting Bobby's hand and turning it, kissing his palm. "Is here all right?" he asked, flashing a grin that had no place on anything angelic, thumb sliding up his wrist, followed by teeth and the wet softness of his mouth. "How about over there?" Shorts were inched down, and Bobby hissed as a hip was similarly nipped and soothed.

A thoughtful pause, and Warren caught his eyes as if inspiration had struck. "I know…"

Bobby cried out and threw his head back as Warren eased the waistband down over his erection and took him into his mouth.

He was gasping like a fish, hands stuttering feather-light on Warren's hair, _needing_ to touch. And suddenly afraid to, afraid to do anything that might disturb this perfect, surreal moment. It was soft and hot and unbearably slow, and Bobby didn't think he could stand it -- the slowness. This -- this wasn't something to linger over, an insane part of him wanted to say. This was a thing rarely given, and then quickly, a fast prelude on the way to doing Something Else.

But Warren showed no sign of wanting to move on, just stayed there with that perfect mouth like he had nothing else he'd rather do, nowhere else to be for the next week or so. He was so beautiful, eyes closed, wings minutely flexing in rhythm, one hand braced on the mattress, the other fanned open on Bobby's hip. And _noises_. Warren was making noises, small, satisfied sounds of pleasure that cut through Bobby, made him feel as though his bones were being pulled out slowly and it was the sweetest pain ever.

Bobby answered with noises of his own, breathless cries of desperation that refused to resolve into actual words, never mind that he had no idea what to say even if his voice would cooperate. Ultimately it was all he could do just to lie there and take it, to let Warren do this delicious, impossibly good thing to him.

His breath hitched in his chest. It was too much, too much to expect that he just lie here and take this, let this happen so slowly, sweetly decadent as the irresistible pleasure of a cold water bath. How was he supposed to look at Warren after this? How could he fight beside him or even just sit across the table at breakfast without seeing that mouth stretched around him, feel the clinging wet velvet of his tongue...

"Oh, God," he had to touch, _had_ to. He cupped Warren's face and Warren pressed into the contact and didn't stop -- didn't stop moving, didn't stop making those _noises_ \--

"Oh God, Warren --" And it was like drowning, being covered by water, pushed down, smothered, starved for air and suddenly remembering that ice floats, bursting to the surface.

Warren held him until he stopped shaking, aftershocks rolling through him like a California suburb. His shorts were gone, and Warren's pants, and he had no recollection of when either article had disappeared. It was a little disturbing to be so clearly impaired when Warren still had it together enough to get them naked. Well, almost naked. His t-shirt was a respected boundary.

And was it too fucked up to not know if he was relieved or not that that reserve of privacy was inviolate? As much as he wanted to hide the ice, he wanted Warren to see it, all of it, and want him anyway.

He just wasn't ready to test that yet.

The hard brand of Warren's cock pressed into his thigh made him wonder if all this had been a prelude after all, and what the Something Else might be. Bobby moved to offer -- his hand, his mouth, anything -- but Warren was already moving up the bed, determined and sexy as hell, licking at Bobby's mouth, his jaw. Warren's lips were swollen, his cock leaving little wet streaks on Bobby's hip. And another jolt went through Bobby as he remembered _why_ Warren's mouth looked like that. He kissed back with as much focus as he could manage, tasting those lips that had stretched around him so sweetly, that warm mouth that had taken him in. His hips bucked up at the image, and Warren pressed down, and just like that they fumbled out a rhythm.

It felt like part of him had been thawed, freed from deep ice. He petted Warren, stroked his back, the joints of his wings, rocked with him and held on. Bobby whispered encouragements until at last Warren held on tighter, thrusting hard against his hip once, twice, and came with a groan like he was in pain, spilling, hot, between them. Warren slid easily in the wetness for a few more strokes before he stopped.

Breathing hard, shoulders trembling with strain, he shifted one way and Bobby another so that Warren lay not quite on top of him, arm and leg and one wing thrown over him like a blanket. The other wing trailed off the side of the bed as if it Warren felt it was just too much effort to fold them properly against his back.

Bobby still couldn't get enough touching, carding his fingers through Warren's hair, tracing his eyebrows, his lips. It was stupid; he knew that, but he still couldn't help it. Warren was so warm, and it had been so long since anyone had let Bobby touch them.

Warren smiled, sleepy. "That tickles."

"Sorry," he said automatically, but didn't move his hand.

"Have you figured it out yet, what we're doing?" Warren asked, closing his eyes as Bobby rubbed the back of his neck.

Bobby shook his head, and kept massaging. "Don't tell me yet." He tucked a feather back into alignment, savoring its softness and the warm weight of the wing draped over him. "I thought you were seeing Paige?"

Warren smiled and said, "I thought you were in love with Lorna?"

That wasn't really an answer, but it was enough of one for now. "You scared me in Scotland, when your heart stopped."

"You scared me on that island.”

Bobby nodded, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat. "Let's try not to do that anymore, okay?"

Warren leaned in and kissed him. "Okay."

* * *

end.

  


  



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